I Hate Me Too
by KatTheGracefulKlutz
Summary: His legs chose to have a mind of their own, and brought him to a bridge. Oh. /OR/ In which Flash Thompson deals with tough things about life.


**Everyone that's read this so far has immediately come to the conclusion that I have depression, so just to clear things up, I promise I don't, and I promise that if I ever do I'll tell my parents.**

 **If you, the reader, is dealing with any of the topics in this (abuse, self-harm, depression, or suicidal thoughts), please go to a trusted adult. Call the suicide hotline, please do** _ **something**_ **to get yourself better.**

 **TRIGGER WARNINGS: Abuse, Self-Harm, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts**

Wake up, get to school as fast as humanly possible, put up a mask, stay out as late as you can, go home, probably get beaten, do homework, go to bed, repeat.

Sometimes he would cut, because _God he hated himself_ , but only when it was cold out, so he could inconspicuously wear long sleeves. And never the day before gym, unless it was going to be a study hall day.

He would lay in bed sometimes, wishing he weren't such a screw-up, wishing he could do _something_ right, because he never managed to. Whatever he did was always wrong, everything was _always his fault_ , and he knew he ought to get help, but who would believe him? Who would be able to help him? No, he knew better than to try something so foolish.

He examined his bruises, forcing himself to smile. Hey, tomorrow he would be able to get out of the house for awhile, he would be able to escape to school, put up that ******* mask, and be somebody else for a day. Somebody that didn't screw up, or make mistakes, or be the reason for all the bad things. Somebody that was looked up to, _admired_ by some, somebody that was pretty much perfect.

He remembered the day he had decided to change his name. He couldn't stand to be called that wretched word anymore, and he sure as **** wasn't about to cry in class (at eleven years old, no less, which, at the time, everyone feels grown up). So, when attendance was called, he waited for his name, and when it came, he uncharacteristically politely responded. "Actually, I go by Flash now."

Everybody stared at him. A collection of similar questions came from the other kids, demanding to know why. He had responded so easily, I mean, he wasn't going to give himself away. "Sounds cooler." he had shrugged. And they believed him.

The nickname had stuck, and now almost nobody ever called him by his "legal" name.

Homecoming had to've been the worst weekend of his life. The dance was on a Friday, and the weekend that followed was, in one word, hell.

Spider-Man had needed his car and his phone, things he was extremely hesitant to give up. And no, it wasn't because he was greedy, because he had an awesome, custom license plate, or because his phone was the latest model. No, it was because he _knew_ it wouldn't end well for himself, but he did it anyway because he could sense the urgency in the vigilante's voice.

He went home that night (had to get a ride, but he still got home), more terrified than he had been in a _long_ time, and he shakingly explained what had happened.

As expected, it didn't go well. The rest of the weekend was _living hell_ , getting bad enough for him to spend a nice, long amount of time making small, clean cuts on his arms. And then they weren't so small anymore. And suddenly they weren't even clean anymore. He had practically hacked and slashed his skin away until both the floor and the razor were soaked in blood.

He didn't even bother bandaging his arms. He did, of course, clean up, because _he couldn't afford to be messy, and the tile was so expensive how dare he ruin it_ , but the thing that terrified him was that he had an overwhelming urge to do it again.

It made no sense, he hated being hurt by other people, it was humiliating, painful, and he sure as **** didn't like it, but other times he just felt so… _numb_. And he thought about how nobody loved him, and how he was just a waste of space, and he would always find himself wandering back to that stupid little blade that gave him feeling.

He made a fatal mistake.

He had walked into school on Monday, long sleeves comfortably hiding his obvious cuts, when a sudden realization hit him with horror.

He had PE.

And so, he walked into the gym, his thoughts racing at a million miles per second as he tried and failed to come up with an excuse. He was too scared.

People would stare, they would _know_ , a teacher would probably call home, and then it would get _worse_. No matter what, he couldn't let that happen.

He was extremely hesitant to exit the locker room, but he did anyway, hoodie over his gym shirt.

 _Please don't comment on it_.

"Hoodie off, Thompson."

His heart pounded, everyone looked at him, _Flash Thompson never got scared_ , but here he was, struggling to breathe properly.

 _This couldn't be happening, God, please don't let it be happening_.

"But it's cold," he lied, biting his tongue ever so slightly. He was certain everybody was seeing through his lies. Thankfully, it _was_ a little chilly, so maybe nobody would?

He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding when it was decided that it was okay for him to continue to wear it. If God was real, he would have to remember to thank him. _Not that God seemed to care about the pain he went through_.

School ended, and per usual, he did as much as he could to avoid going home. All of his friends were busy, so for awhile he just walked around the school, pretending to have lost something. Then, an hour later, he decided it would look weird to linger too much around there. So he began walking around town.

Queens wasn't anything too exciting. All the action took place in places like New York City. The coolest thing about Queens was Spider-Man. _Spider-Man must have it so easy_. He often thought about how, under the mask, the colorful superhero was probably adored by all his friends, he was probably popular, he probably had it so nice.

Not that he would ever know for sure, but he could imagine.

He wished he could be brave, like Spider-Man.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, walking with his head down. It was starting to get cold for real now, as the sun was going down. It would be dark soon; he would have to go home.

The air was frosty, snow was a high possibility even though it was only October. He loved being able to see his breath. Breathing was an interesting thing, you never really think much of it until you've temporarily lost the ability. Not a fun experience.

It was really dark now, he had to hurry. He would be in trouble for being out so late, and he definitely didn't want to get mugged.

It was less than fifteen minutes later when he got back to his house, fearing the surely coming punishment. He had been out much later than he should have been. Before he opened the door, he removed his shoes a trick he learned online for maximum silence).

He shut the door silently, padding across the floor and avoiding all the squeaky spots.

 _He just had to make it to his room_.

He was almost to the stairs. He was going to make it, he would finally get a peaceful night's sleep.

"Eugene."

 _God, he hated that name_.

OoOoO

Sometimes he wondered why he didn't just go ahead and kill himself. He supposed it was because he (for some reason), still had hope for a better future for himself. Not that it was likely, he knew it wasn't.

No, he knew the real reason. He was scared. He was just a scared little boy, a pathetic _thing_ , that's what he was. He didn't want to kill himself because he was scared that he would regret it. _But did anyone ever actually regret it?_

That was the million dollar question.

He wanted so badly to believe he _would_ regret it, that if he jumped or hung himself or overdosed then immediately he would see that his problems could have been solved. He told himself he would, but how could one be sure?

The next morning, he stayed in bed longer than usual, just thinking.

He left for school (he had to walk, since he never got another car after Homecoming), as usual. Except his legs weren't bringing him to the Midtown High School of Science and Technology. His legs chose to have a mind of their own and brought him to a bridge. _Oh_.

The water below was deep, rocky, and fast. It was a fatal fall. He stood there a few minutes, wondering if anyone would even truly miss him. _Nobody would_.

To any passerby, it just looked like he was admiring the water. _If only that was all_. He wanted so badly to just get it over with, to get over his dumb fears and just _jump_.

But what if he regretted it? What if someone tried to save him? He would have to live (or die) with this decision. He had to think it through properly. He hadn't even left a note (not that anybody would care enough to read it), or said goodbye to his few _real_ friends, he hadn't weighed the pros and cons.

Or he could just say fudge it and walk away from this. He could go on with life more miserable than ever. Because his one chance to escape his pain slipped through his fingers.

He slowly, delicately climbed over the rail, meant to keep people from falling. Not that it would be a fall. More of a jump.

He held on with both hands, looking down at the water below. If he lost his grip, that would be it. Was he really doing this?

He took a breath and glanced behind him. He didn't see anyone.

It would be just like jumping off a diving board. There was barely enough space for his feet on this side of the rail, he needed to decide. One step and he would be through.

He blinked. His fate rested in his own hands, and he didn't know whether to crumple it or to throw it away. _He needed to decide_. He glanced at his exposed arms, and the cuts that were so clearly visible.

He took a step.

 **END**

 **Well... that was depressing.**

 **Please review, follow, and favorite, cause those things make me a happy Kat :)**

 **Until next time, Kat signing off.**


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